Beyond Stalag 13
by car54
Summary: A brief look at what happens to the POWs and their captors after the war. Thanks to 80sarcade for proofreading assistance.


It was good to be home. Good to sleep in his own bed, to finally have no worries about missions from London. Not to mention dealing with the krauts when one of them caught on to his plans. At war's end, Colonel Hogan returned to his home in Indiana. He had been given a simple choice: to rejoin the 504th bomb group or take a honorable discharge. Surprisingly, he chose the latter option. Despite his stopover at Stalag 13, flying - any kind of flying - was his first choice. At any rate, his part in saving the world was over; now it was time to live up to his dreams.

Like most servicemen, Hogan had found it hard to adjust to home and freedom. Oddly, the new experience was similar to being confined in his own personal camp. Unlike before, when he could 'escape' to keep his sanity, this new freedom was disconcerting. As a free man he could escape any time he wanted. However, in this new reality there was only life to escape to. At times he yearned for the safety of a Stalag 13; at others, he cursed it.

Flying was the answer to his freedom, but how would he do it? In truth, any cockpit of any plane would be a slice of heaven. He could be a test pilot with the Skunk works if he wanted. Alternatively, he could fly transports or even - if he were so adventurous - a crop duster. In the end, he accepted a position with a major airline. It not only kept him moving but it allowed him to see the world. This time, instead of dropping bombs, he would carry passengers. It wasn't a glamorous job - only fighter pilots received that glory - but the wide range of available stewardesses that traveled the skies were a pleasant - it not pleasurable - fringe benefit of travel.

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Unlike Hogan, Sergeant Kinchloe chose to remain in the Army. In a way, it was home. Besides, the service provided him with more opportunities than he ever would have received in civilian life. He still received looks that let him know that some people thought he didn't belong. Even so, his work as a staff sergeant was recognized and that was enough for him. Kinch certainly didn't miss Stalag 13 at all. However, he did miss some of the men - his friends, now - he'd shared a barracks with. These men were the first people to treat him as an equal. At times, he wished he could see them again. A paranoid part of his mind wondered if their attitude might change now that they were free men. Despite that, the radioman knew better. It would take time, but he would eventually find his absent friends. In the meantime, the Army was only the means to an end for a bigger plan. Television looked like it would be the next big thing and he was going to ride its wave to the future.

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Andrew Carter was, to put it bluntly, a little lost after liberation. Like Kinchloe, he decided to stay in the Army. After all, where else could he do what he did and get paid for it? Ironically his new commander - a straitlaced man with no sense of humor -ordered him to inspect structures for indications of sabotage. A second job, disarming undetonated ordinance, challenged his numerous skills. It was strange to walk with impunity in some of the places where he'd had to sneak around only weeks ago.

Even so, VJ day brought a new dawn to Carter's life. His new assignments were not as fulfilling as they once were. An old goal - that of becoming a pharmacist - lingered in the back of his mind. Before the war, it would have remained just that: a dream. However, with the GI bill, it was an achievable reality. After graduation he returned home to Indiana and opened his own drug store. Even as he moved forward with life he kept a seat in his office reserved for the day one of his friends stopped by...just in case.

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Providing fine French cuisine for those who would appreciate it was foremost on LeBeau's mind. It would not be wasted on a Boche who merely wolfed it down like the pig he was. The memory of the fat sergeant of the guard stuffing his face - even more, not even taking the time to taste what LeBeau had worked so hard to prepare -infuriated the Frenchman. To add insult to injury he had to treat the slob as if he were his closest friend. He did it...for France, he would do almost anything...but his stomach churned at the thought.

LeBeau found a small café that had been owned by a collaborator who had fled after the Allies reclaimed Paris. The dining area, at least in his mind, still held the stench of Nazi pigs. But he could fix that. He arranged to take ownership of the place and soon was preparing meals for his own people and the people who had helped liberate his beloved France.

Like Carter, he kept one table reserved for any of his former comrades who might someday be able to stop by. That day would be a glorious one; he would show them what fine dining truly was.

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Newkirk arrived home to a devastated London. Of course, he knew it would be awful. After all, the stories he heard were horrifying enough; however, he hadn't really understood the total destruction of his home city until he saw it with his own eyes. Even so, he wasn't worried. If England could survive the Nazis then they could survive anything. It would take time but they would come back stronger than before.

What would he do though? Before the war he had made his living through less than honest means. Ironically, he had employed those same skills for the benefit of Stalag 13 operations. In a way, honest work - or dishonest, depending on your point of view - changed his perceptions. Before the war he had been willing to risk time in one of His Majesty's prisons if he got caught. However, he vowed to never be a prisoner again.

There was one way he could put his skills to good use, however. As a locksmith, he could help shape the future of his corner of London...and maybe even beyond. A bloke could dream, couldn't he?

He kind of wished that he could go into business with one of his old mates from the war. Strangely - and he was surprised to admit it - he missed Carter the most. The American was an unintended expert at getting on his nerves but still...he missed the childish sergeant. Besides which, he was a good sort and damn good at what he did. That in of itself would be a problem though. A safe cracker/lock picker and a bloody pyromaniac would not go over too well with the authorities. Well, it was irrelevant now. He was on one side of the pond; they were on the other shore. In all reality he'd most likely never see his mates again.

And that made him sad.

In the meantime, he concentrated on how to start his new legitimate career. There was going to be a lot of rebuilding and all of those doors would need locks.

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Schultz returned home to find that his home town of Heidelberg was mostly intact. Fortunately, the city had been spared the worst of the heavy Allied bombing that had ravaged Germany. His home was fine; however, his wife and children were nowhere to be found. After talking with people in town Schultz found that his wife had left their home. The war had taken its toll on her nerves; she was tired of waiting for his infrequent visits. Moreover, if the reports were to be believed, she had even said that she would find someone who wasn't "fat and stupid"

She always had blamed him for losing Schatzi. However, what could he have done?. The government didn't ask to convert the factory to war production. Instead, they merely informed him that it was needed for the war effort. Promises, now hollow, were made regarding the return of his factory 'after the war.' Even then, he'd known better than to argue with the government. For this action his wife had called him a simpering coward.

Reluctantly, he decided that he should see if there was anything left of the factory. Sadly he found just what he had expected. Not so much as one brick was left standing; only unrecognizable ruins remained. Ironically, he found two children playing in the rubble of what had been the largest toy manufacturer in Germany. It was that haunting image that lifted Schultz from his despondency and into action. All he needed was a few tools and scrap wood to start making toys again. Even more, he had plenty of room at home to craft his work. The small numbers he could produce would be but a shadow of the numbers he was once used to. Even so, it would be enough to provide for himself...and hopefully bring a smile of joy to a young face.

Before long, his 'workshop' was humming with the sounds of wooden activity. One day he was working on a set of toy cars when a familiar face popped through the door.

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With war's end, Colonel Klink knew the roles of jail keeper and prisoner would soon be reversed. He was just thankful that it was the Americans coming and not the Russians. The latter offered no protection; the former gave at least a chance of survival.

It was difficult enough to watch the new 'liberators' take over the camp. Klink would never forget the smug look on Hogan's face as he watched his former camp Kommandant taken into custody. The galling part - at least from the Luftwaffe officer's point of view - was when his counterpart told him "We would have let you use one of our tunnels but the guys made better time than we'd expected."

So now, here he sat waiting to find out what the Allies would do with him. Would he be executed? Imprisoned? He didn't know. The enforced solitude made Klink realize something else: he had never been cut out to be a soldier. Ever since he was a child he had dreamed of someday becoming a great man. The admiration of his people would be his; the name of Wilhelm Klink would grace the history books for a new generation of children. When the Great War started he imagined he would finally be able to fulfill those dreams. In any event, his fantasies turned into a double-edged sword; Hogan had used his ambitions to manipulate his enemy.

Oddly, his ultimate fate was one of relief and humiliation. His release came from one simple point: no prisoner had ever been harmed or tortured during his reign. If anything, he was proud of that fact. The other fact - that the operation could not have proceeded without his imcomptence - was something he ignored..

So Wilhelm Klink, alone and invisible, slipped back into society. His dreams, now wilted, were put aside; his only ambition was to live another day.

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Hans Burkhalter was a survivor. He had an innate talent for placing himself in a position to rise to the top no matter what happened. In reality, his only true loyalty was to the man in the mirror. To that end he had no strong convictions about politics or religion; indeed, he usually adopted the most favorable - if not beneficial - option available on an issue. He would serve a cause well, but not out of genuine commitment. His self-interest was the only interest he was concerned about.

Early on, Burkhalter had seen the likelihood that the Allies would take Berlin. Accordingly, he had prepared for a quick escape. It had to be timed just right, however. Move too soon and he would be shot as a traitor by his own people. Too late, and he would be captured or killed by the Allies. Alas - or quite fortunate, in his opinion - his wife was left out of his travel plans. The Burkhalter philosophy for survival was simple: you couldn't count on anyone but yourself. She would have to find her own way to survive. It was harsh, but...necessary.

In the end, his escape was easier than he expected. Bribes were paid; colleagues and friends were betrayed or shot. The reward, freedom in Switzerland, was only the first stop on a journey that would take him around the world. Argentina would never be Germany but it was a far cry from the occupied war-torn lands he knew. The former General never found out what had happened to his wife...which was just as well. The most important person, Albert Burkhalter, was alive and well.

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Major Hochstetter was a proud man. Too proud to run, he stayed to the very end. The master race could - would- never be defeated. Now he spent his days sitting in a cell while awaiting the judgment of the war crimes tribunal.

Hochstetter had been inspired the first time he heard Hitler speak. Ever since then, he had been a devoted supporter of National Socialism. He still believed in the inherent superiority of the German race. Unfortunately, every group had a Klink for an idiot or corpulent, self-absorbed officers like General Burkhalter. Just thinking the latter man's name made his blood boil. Klink, for all his faults, at least attempted to serve Germany. Generals like Burkhalter, however, looked out only for themselves. The fall of the Third Reich was their fault.

At his trial Hochstetter was questioned about his interrogation methods, his involvement in the final solution, and his treatment of POWs and German dissidents. He denied nothing. In fact, he proudly proclaimed his part in it all. His only regret, stated for the record, was that he was unable to carry on his good work. He further vowed to the panel that the master race would reassert itself one day as the true masters of humanity.

The promise, made with conviction, reassured his soul. It was still on his mind when the trap door dropped out from underneath him.

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The war's end had given Helga time to think.

She remembered how moved she had been by Hitler. Even more so, it had been utterly thrilling to be a part of a proud, strong Germany. Young women like her had been told that they would be essential to the new Reich. They would need to be the mothers of the next generation of leaders. Without them, there was no future for Germany.

For that purpose they would be paired with a prime example of German superiority: young SS men. Later, upon reflection, she had come to realize what her parents had bluntly told her. She was not the revered mother of the future; instead she was breeding stock. Hitler's whore.

She had avoided that cruel fate at Stalag 13. Essential employees - defined as those working for the war effort - were spared from the program. Ironically, the realization of how little she had been valued by her own people was part of why she had been interested in the American colonel. He was charming, handsome...

...and, for the first time, made her feel like a real person instead of a sex object.

In hindsight, he had used her to obtain information. At the time she had realized that; however, it felt good to be loved. To be valued if not respected. The real shock came after liberation. One day he was there; the next, he was gone. Forever. A sense of betrayal rippled through her soul. Despite her help - despite everything - he had abandoned her to her new fate. No goodbyes; no farewells.

Just emptiness.

In the end, there was no one else. She was alone. Even her parents - the ones that had told her the truth about the program - were no more. Denounced to the Gestapo, they were no more. Even her childhood home was occupied by the Americans now; there was, quite literally, nowhere else to go to.

In the end, Helga wandered the streets aimlessly and tried to figure out her next move. Oddly, it came in the form of a nice, if somewhat worn, house. A sign in a front window said 'Help Wanted." She considered the words for a moment before she nodded.

I can do anything, she told herself. With that, she knocked on the front door. A look of stunned surprise passed over her face as the owner opened the door.

"Sergeant Schultz?" she breathed, unable to believe her eyes. A look of genuine happiness was on the portly man's face. It was an expression she had rarely seen at Stalag 13 for obvious reasons. As a civilian, it suited him well.

"Fraulein Helga! it's good to see you!" Schultz's happy voice boomed. He pointed to his dark jacket. "Please, call me Hans," he continued. "What brings you here?'

She merely pointed to the sign in the window. Immediately, a smile lit up the older man's face.

"Come in," he said warmly. "I think you can bring that help wanted sign with you, too..."


End file.
